I passed
up the nearby spots in favor of my favorite stretch of Kettle Creek, a good
half-hour’s drive beyond the asphalt. I was not going to compromise quality for
quantity, either. I rigged up my locally-crafted split bamboo rod and tied on a
favorite attractor dry fly. Time was suspended for the next hour and a half, as
I hiked in to my favorite spot, stalking with care, casting with delicacy, and
being surprised with two spawn-ready male brookies in the twelve-inch class in
addition to my usual seven-inchers. Beautiful, beautiful trout with bright
colors overlaid with silver, muscular and glistening in my hands as I slipped
them back into their natural element to continue replenishing their rare and
precious kind.
The sun slipping behind the south-western ridge signaled the
end of this glorious interlude, but I treasured every minute of the hike out
and the drive home, amid the fall colors I sensed would be fleeting indeed. It
is an uncomfortable talent to have, the ability to know that something is
ending. Sadness, bitter-sweet, colored my entire afternoon, as I appreciated
what was both my first and final solo fishing trip of the season.
Late that night, the October Storm blew in; literally,
ripping down my birdfeeders, support cable and all. Soaking rain has continued
ever since, lightning illuminating a landscape being stripped of its color. The
temperatures are gradually dropping, and for the first time I saw the snowflake
icon on the day-by-day weather forecast. They say the rain will end sometime
tomorrow, to be followed by our first temperatures in the 20’s this year. This
is it: the October Storm, the one that ends autumn and begins winter here in
upstate Pennsylvania.
That’s all it takes here, one storm, that always comes
sometime in October (usually earlier than this year). One day, busses of “leaf
peepers” cruise the local roads, stopping here and there to snap pictures, taking
home a lasting memory of beauty. The October Storm hits, and the day after
that, the trees are all but bare, the muted duns of the hillsides broken only
by the occasional stubborn birch late to turn, or the candle-flame shape of a
tamarack.
As I gaze out the window at the downpour, I am struck, as
I always am, by the ephemeral, fragile nature of beauty. One storm, and it’s
gone. My comfort is that it is followed by a different, subtler form of beauty,
there for those who can appreciate it. Anyone can see the gaudy glories of
autumn’s peak, but the true artist also values the quiet, soul-soothing shades
that follow the October Storm.
